


Boys Like Us

by jiffyfetch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:05:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiffyfetch/pseuds/jiffyfetch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras asks Grantaire to be his fake boyfriend, which goes about exactly as well as you would aspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewritten version of "Boys Like Us" which I posted earlier this year. Most of the edits are focused on expanding what existed & changing from first person to third person POV. Enjoy!
> 
> General trigger warning for light drug usage and homophobia. There are some mentions of violence and blood.

An (abbreviated) list of things Grantaire hates:

  1. Walnuts
  2. His parents
  3. The '70s
  4. Taking baths
  5. Biology
  6. Being disturbed by loud noises



An insistent knock on his window is  _really_ pissing him off.

"Grantaire? GRANTAIRE?" a muffled voice yells through the glass. He turns to see a halo of blond curls and giant eyes, with graceful fingers resting against the window of his car. Grantaire wonders vaguely if those fingers play piano. He rolls down the window.

"Yes?" He vaguely recognizes Enjolras who he hadn't seen since they'd had health class together freshman year. He was always righteous, correcting the teacher and demanding a more inclusive curriculum. Not that he was wrong in anything he said, just that nothing would be accomplished by yelling at the pudgy football coach. It hadn't even occurred to Grantaire that Enjolras knew his name.

"What's that smell?" Enjolras asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Uuuuhhhh..." Grantaire trials off, grinning up at him.

"Are you...are you  _high_  right now?" Enjolras seems genuinely shocked and even a little disappointed.

"Haha, well sunshine, I cannot in good faith say no."

He sighs and opens the door, climbing into the passenger seat. He opens the glove compartment and digs around, pulling out the can of febreeze kept there for emergencies. 

"How did you know I have that?"

He laughs wryly. "Lucky guess, huh?"

"Why aren't you in class?" Grantaire asks, leaning my chair back until it's almost horizontal and propping his feet up on the steering wheel.

"Free period. Why are you getting high in the parking lot?"

"Spanish class."

"¿No es importante?" he teases through a thick French accent. Grantaire wonders where that came from, as his English is pure small-town America. It occurs to him that Enjolras is a very French name.

"Mi madre es cubana - soy fluido. Y muy guapo." Grantaire reaches over him to open the glove compartment, grabbing a pack of cigarettes, absentmindedly offering them to Enjolras who shakes his head.

"Smoking is really bad for you. But then, you probably know that already." He rolls the window down further and makes a big show of airing out the car.

"So what's up, Enji?" Grantaire giggles at the nickname.

"I have a favor to ask you. A  _big_  favor. I should probably do it when you're not high, that seems like dubious consent for anything."

"I'm thinking so clearly now. It's like...something really clear up in my mind...no clouds or anything in there," Grantaire smiles up at the car's skylight, arguably its only good feature.

"I-uh, I really don't know what to do with that. But, okay. So you know how our school administration is terrible?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I really do."

"And, it's senior year. So prom, graduation, all of that's coming up." Enjolras is gesturing a lot with his hands while he talks, staring past Grantaire like he's not even there. How many times has he practiced this little speech in the mirror? "And that's really important to most kids, but I'm really just. Dreading it. I am dreading it. This morning Javert called me into his office and told me that I had to behave. That if my 'little group of rebellious shit-starters' and I cause trouble, I will be expelled." His eyes are starting to fill up and he balls his fists, determined not to cry.

"Why just you? If he was worried about the whole group, why didn't he just show up to one of your meetings?" Grantaire asks, genuinely curious. Enjolras and his friends run the Friends of the ABC, a social justice group that stages protests and circulates petitions. They're largely ignored by the students but hated by all of the administrators. It's rumored that during freshman year they burned down the gym. Grantaire's pretty sure they aren't arsonists, but if any student was the mastermind of something so dramatic, it would be Enjolras.

"Because I'm the loudest and the most threatening and the most...open," the boy says, staring out of the window.

"Open?"

"Gay." Enjolras turns back to face Grantaire. He's losing control and the tears are falling. "I'm the most fucking gay."

It's the first time Grantiare has ever heard him curse. Ever. Normally he's composed and articulate. He never cries.

Grantaire realizes that he's right. Ever since Jehan switched to a private boarding school, they're the only two openly queer kids in the school. Grantaire is generally less threatening to the status quo anyone since he mostly sticks to himself. A bunch of Enjolras's friends are probably queer as well, but they're not as loud as their leader - coming out in this school is essentially equivalent to a death wish. Grantaire only did so to piss off his parents in a moment of pop-punk fueled desire to get the hell out of dodge.

"So," he says, sick of beating around the bush. "What do you want from me?"

"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend. I normally wouldn't ask for this from  _anyone_ , but you're also out and the administration needs to see that they can't touch us. They try, we sue." His face is all splotchy and red and he's still not looking at Grantaire.

"And who pays for that? I'm sorry, but my parents wouldn't exactly jump at the chance to sue the school over my sexuality. They'd more likely give a generous donation to the football team if they heard the players beat us up."

"There are plenty of LGBTQ+ organizations that would fund us. We could fundraise. I could read a couple textbooks and represent myself in court. It doesn't matter." Enjolras's eyes are fiery with determination. His tears are gone.

"Do you really think we'll do anything?"

"We can try."

It seems hopelessly optimistic to Grantaire. There's no way anything's going to change around here for decades at least. Having a "boyfriend" would most likely result in regular ass-kickings.

He looks up at Enjolras. The blond kid looks like some kind of Greek god, with a chiseled face and the sun shining through his eyes. Grantaire realizes that Enjolras is going to do something stupid no matter what. At least Grantaire can put up a fight. Plus, he could do worse in the fake-boyfriend department - Grantaire isn't exactly a looker.

"Okay," he says.

"What?" Enjolras looks up, staring right into Grantaire's eyes, looking for some hint of a joke.

"I'll do it. I'll pretend with you. Stick it to the man, right?"

"Right," he says, laughing slightly. "The man."

"Want a ride home?" Grantaire realizes he feels bad for the other boy, wants to hug him. It feels wrong. People shouldn't feel bad for Enjolras, they should fear him. Or want to fuck him. Or both.

"I don't really like being home all that much to be honest," he replies quietly.

"You could come to my house. If you want. No pressure or anything."

"Fine," he says, laughing. "Why the hell not?"

Grantaire puts the keys in the ignition, stubs out his cigarette, and starts driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Spanish, Grantaire says "My mom is Cuban - I'm fluid. And very handsome." Sorry if the Spanish is bad - I'm relying on Google translate and very shitty Spanish classes here.
> 
> If you're wondering, Enjolras is fluent in French. It doesn't affect his English since it's his second language, but when he says anything in Spanish his brain flips to French pronunciation.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire pushes open the door and ushers his not-quite-boyfriend in. The living room has two heinous floral couches covered in plastic, a cheap IKEA coffee table, and nothing else. All of the pictures had been taken down over the years - Grantaire as a little kid, his parents at their wedding, family trips to Disney that no longer took place.

"Mom, dad. This is Enjolras," he announces to the completely empty house.

"Where are they?" Enjolras asks. His eyes are still red and he barely talked the whole ride over. Grantaire doesn't know him very well, but he does know that that's unusual.

"Dad's always at the hospital, even when he's not on call. I don't think he likes being home too much - prefers sick people. Mom's busy being a drunk housewife anywhere but her own house. I think she's a serious gambling addict."

"Addiction isn't a joke you know," he says, frowning.

"I'm not kidding, hot stuff. She plays bingo, craps, poker, you name it. Plus she goes to Vegas once a month. I wish I was kidding," Grantaire smiles sadly, looking down at the floor. He doesn't know why he's telling Enjolras all of this.

"So no one's ever home?" he looks around at the empty rooms. There's not much to look at. "I wish my parents were like that."

"That bad?" Grantaire asks, bumping their shoulders together.

"Pretty much," he says, trying not to frown. "My parents are Old Money types, and they don't really need to work. Mom drinks martinis and dad plays golf and they both try to pretend I'm not the radical degenerate queer of the family."

"My parents are all too aware that I'm the hopeless gay burnout painter. They just stay away and try not to encourage my habits. Mom's a little better than dad, but not much."

"I didn't know you painted," he says, looking oddly proud.

"Yeah. I do."

"Could I see some?" he asks, grinning hesitantly. "Sorry, I don't mean to be pushy."

"No," Grantaire replies. "No, that's okay. C'mon, I'll show you my room."

They walk down the narrow hallway, awkwardly close to each other. Grantaire realizes he doesn't really know how to talk to people, especially not people like Enjolras. He opens the door and finds himself wishing he had actually cleaned up for once.

The floor is littered with dirty clothes and old power bar wrappers. There's an embarrassing number of comic books stacked next to the bed, which isn't made. Canvasses are scattered everywhere, in varying stages of completion. A giant Space Balls poster is tacked to the wall. The hardwood floors are paint-stained. Everything smells like weed and body odor and there's probably cockroaches between the sheets.

"Umm, yeah, sorry about the mess," he mutters, kicking dirty boxers under the bed as surreptitiously as possible.

Enjolras wanders over to the bookshelves, inspecting Grantaire's extensive Homer collection.

"I didn't know there were this many different translations of the Iliad," he muttered, running his fingers across the spines.

“Give me a place to stand and I will move the earth," Grantaire recites. "Homer was a fucking genius."

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another," Enjolras replies, his face unreadable. "It's good."

"Of course he reads Homer," Grantaire laughs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he replies, not sounding angry really, more confused than anything.

"Nothing," Grantaire says, rummaging around in the bedside table and pulling out another pack of cigarettes. Something about Enjolras kept making him nervous. "It's just, you're like this perfect guy. You don't smoke, you don't drink, you're passionate about everything, you read Homer, you probably wrote an alternative health curriculum freshman year-"

"What, so I'm embarrassing just because I care about stuff? Everything I care about is important!!"

"Yeah, but you're not gonna unfuck the world. It's too late for that. The world is irredeemably fucked."

"So you think we shouldn't even try?"

"Try all you want," Grantaire frowns, flicking ash out of the open window. "It's just not going to do much."

"But things are changing every day - how do you not see that?? Over the past 50 years so much has been accomplished. Obviously the world isn't going to be fixed in our lifetimes but giving up on it is just absurd. We have to make change."

Grantaire laughs bitterly, flopping onto the bed. "In my experience, people don't like change. People like making up excuses for date rape and giving queer Hispanic kids like me black eyes."

He sits down on the bed hesitantly, voice reduced to just above a whisper. "We have to try."

"I know, Apollo. Why do you think I said yes?"


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire finds himself humming as he drives to school, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He parks two blocks away in front of the 7-Eleven, the spot where he was meant to meet Enjolras before school. His stomach twists itself up, fully aware of how stupid his plans for the day are.

Combeferre, one of Enjolras's friends and a fellow member of the ABC, pulls up in a Jeep. His car is substantially nicer than Grantaire's shitty little Toyota. Enjolras clambers out of the backseat, waving goodbye to Courfeyrac who is nestled in the passenger seat, intently picking a song from his iPhone. He eventually decides on one and ABBA blares as the Jeep peels away.

"I thought you might be tired," Enjolras murmurs, offering a travel mug of coffee to Grantaire. They had stayed up late arguing, sprawled across Grantaire's bed. Grantaire had quickly discovered that Enjolras had opinions on everything - from feminism to eating vegan to even the legalization of marijuana. It had been nice in a weird, foreign way.

"So, how exactly is this going to work?" Grantaire asks, starting the engine again.

"Umm," Enjolras replies sheepishly, "I haven't entirely figured that part out yet. We just need to do something big, and then let the school's rumor mill do its work."

"And what exactly is this something big?"

"I'm still workin' on that," he says, holding his head up defiantly.

They climb out of the car still planless, climbing the school steps together. Grantaire sighs as they reach the door and start parting ways to head for their lockers.

 _I guess it's up to me to do Something Big,_ he thinks, beginning to regret this whole plan.

"Bye, Enjolras," he says sweetly, a little too loud, grabbing his hands before he can walk away. "Have a good day."

They don't let go of each other for a long minute, holding each other's hands in full view of everybody. The hallway traffic slows as students turn to stare at the two boys.

Grantaire leans in towards Enjolras, pausing about half a centimeter from his face, asking him silently if this was all okay. Enjolras smiles back and leans in the rest of the way, pressing their lips together. It's weird and warm and not entirely unpleasant. Grantaire wonders if he's ever kissed anyone before. It's over quickly, and is fairly chaste as far as kisses go.

"Bye," he whispers, pulling away slowly. 

"Bye," Grantaire replies, watching him walk away. Only when he's out of sight does Grantaire realize that essentially the entire school is staring, making noises of mild disgust. Most of the nearby teachers had stuck their heads out of their classrooms to gape.

"What?" Grantaire barks at a freshman, who squeaks and runs away.

The bell rings and everyone scatters. Grantaire sighs and shuffles down the hall, hoping no one from his first period was watching. 

***

He tries to sneak into first period Calculus without anybody noticing, only about a minute late. Mr. Thenardier stops teaching the second he walks in, and everyone else turns around to see why.

"Out," the teacher demands.

"I'm sorry, what?" Grantiare replies, feeling his cheeks turn red. 

"Get out of my class. I'm not having some late-every-day, boy-kissing pothead interrupting my class."

"I wasn't interrupting until you decided to make a scene," Grantaire hisses, officially pissed off. "You can't kick me out just for being queer."

"No, but I can kick you out for being late and under the influence." He smiles like some sort of poisonous animal does right before it kills you.

"I'm not under the influence," Grantaire shouts. 

"And who are they going to believe? You? Or me? Now get out before I call security." He turns back to the board, picking up his chalk and writing a new equation.

"I can't fucking believe this," Grantaire mutters. He grabs his backpack and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He's so angry on my way out of school that he doesn't notice Enjolras until they walk into each other.

"Shit, sorry," he mumbles before looking up. "Oh, hey. It's you."

"Hi. Are you skipping class again?" Enjolras doesn't sound surprised, which Grantaire really tries to be offended by.

"I got kicked out by Thenardier. Told me I couldn't be coming to class 'late and under the influence.'"

"But you're not under the influence...are you?" Enjolras is frowning at Grantaire like he's not sure who he's mad at.

"No. But that's a punishable offense and kissing you isn't." Grantaire sounds so bitter that it makes him laugh, a harsh, pitiful noise that he instantly regrets.

"I got kicked out too," Enjolras admits, frowning. "I was told that I either had to change in the girls locker room or leave. I didn't want to invalidate my gender identity or offend anyone, so I left. Besides, I hate gym - I don't mind missing it."

He has this habit of smiling, Grantaire notices, where he looks like a sad puppy that just keeps getting kicked. The world should just leave him alone.

"So," Grantiare says, gently reaching up to tuck a lock of overly-long blond hair behind his ear, "do you want to go sit in the principal's office all day, or do you wanna get out of this shithole?"

"I firmly believe," Enjolras sighs, "that education is important and should not be taken lightly. We are extremely lucky to be getting a free (if not great-quality) education, and that's not something I like to throw away. That being said, I'm clearly not going to learn anything in the principal's office, and I hate this place. Let's go."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere."

***

They end up on the highway, winding through rush hour traffic until pulling off at a random stop. Grantaire drives down dirt roads until they reach an endless corn field. He parks and they climb out, sitting on the hood of the car with the stereo blasting, not really doing anything but looking at the sky. It's cliche and stupid and Grantaire can't remember the last time I was so content. 

Enjolras took control of the music as they left the school parking lot, and his music taste is eclectic at best. He plays Grantaire a weird mix of top 40, soulful indie jams by a bunch of guys who probably have bad goatees, One Direction, and the best hits of the 80s. He sings along with every song, off-key but not terrible. It hits Grantaire that he could never in a million years deserve Enjolras, not really. He's lucky to even be fake boyfriends with him.

"Enjolras?" he asks, turning his head so they're looking at each other, foreheads almost touching. "Why did you ask me?"

"What?" says Enjolras.

"Why did you want me to pretend with you?"

"You're out. No one else is." Enjolras smiles slightly, like it's that simple.

"Yeah," Grantaire replies, not quite satisfied, "but I doubt I'm the only queer person you know. It didn't have to be me."

"No," he replies, frowning. "No, I guess it didn't have to be you. But I find it...infuriating that you don't seem to believe in anything. And I want that to change."

"So what, you thought getting beat up and harassed for kissing you would make me feel all warm and fuzzy?"

"Grantaire," he laughs, "I thought we could make a difference. We can change this school. After us, no one has to be scared anymore."

"Oh Apollo," Grantaire sighs, leaning his head against Enjolras's shoulder. "People like us will always be scared."

"You really don't think things will change?"

"How many times do we have to have this argument? I think that what we're doing is important. After a while, other kids will probably be able to come out. But how long has it been since segregation ended and people are still racist?"

"I don't think it's fair to compare the two," he objects, sitting up quickly. He climbs off of the car and wanders off into the corn. 

Grantaire thinks about following him but can't tell how angry Enjolras actually is. He climbs into the passenger's seat to pick up Enjolras's ancient iPod nano, searching through his music. Eventually he finds the right song and turns the stereo up all the way. "Baby Come Back" blasts through the speakers, blaring across the entire cornfield. 

Enjolras appears out of nowhere, climbing into the drivers seat and turning the stereo off. 

"Can I drive?" he asks, grinning at Grantaire in a way that makes him exceptionally nervous. 

"Can you?" Grantaire replies. 

"Legally? Yes. Technically? I'm working on it."

"And you want to work on it in my car?"

"In theory I'm a great driver," he tries to reassure Grantaire. 

"And what about in reality?" 

As it turns out, in reality Enjolras is a terrible driver - he doesn't go under 50 mph. It's kind of nice, in a way, to see him fail at something. Maybe he's not so perfect after all. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic slurs & violence

Grantaire is hiding out in the art room, headphones on and charcoal in hand when a shadow falls over him. The little studio is his favorite spot in the school - the art teacher Fantine lets him use any supplies he wants and pretends not to notice that he's supposed to be in class. He's been coming there more and more recently as he days have been getting steadily more unbearable.

"Yes?" he asks, looking up at the group of jocks towering over him, trying to look intimidating. 

The jocks in this case are Joe Johnson (no kidding) and his BFFs Paul Brown and Mitch Angel. Joe is ugly, with a face full of pimples and greasy hair, which he makes up for by being especially brutal. Paul is an idiot who would follow a slab of granite if it had a convincing voice. Grantaire doesn't know Mitch very well, but they used to be on debate together in fourth grade when they both gave half a shit.

"We hear you were making out with Mitch's girl at a party."

"Uh, yeah. I made out with Cosette at a party.  _Last year._ But she's with Marius now and you guys were on a break during that party. So forgive me if I think your real problem is the other blond I've been kissing."

"Now that you mention it," Paul snarls, "I did hear something about you blowing that weirdo tall dude behind the gym."

"Oh so we're fucking already?" Grantaire asks. "That was fast. I like to think I'm a gentleman, but I guess not. So what's up, you guys want a hand job? I'm afraid I've got something called standards-"

Joe decides he's had enough of Grantaire's bullshit, leaning over to snatch the charcoal out of his hand. He presses it to the paper, grinding until there's nothing but black. Grantaire bites back angry tears. He'd been working on that for almost a week now, a sketchy outline of Enjolras's face. He was hard to capture on paper, but Grantaire was  _finally_  starting to get somewhere.

"Fuck you," he whispers, pushing Joe away from him.

Within seconds, he's sprawled on the ground with a bloody lip and throbbing face. Joe's fist knocks into him again and again and again, blood beginning to pool out of the corner of Grantaire's eye.

He looks around for Fantine, but the room is practically empty. The only other students were all watching, filming the fight on their phones. 

"I've had enough of your bullshit, queerdo," Joe snaps. "You're finally gonna get what you deserve."

He pulls Grantaire up and keeps hitting, turning his face into pulp as Grantiare gasps for breath between swallows of blood. 

Suddenly he's on the ground again, the sound of someone else's flesh getting pounded filling his ears. Blond curls appear through the slits that replaced his eyes and a gentle hand pulls him up. 

Grantaire is still gasping, trying to breath through the pain. He leans heavily on Enjolras's shoulder, the other boy wrapping a reassuring hand around his waist.

"Gentleman," a voice says, "My office. Now." Principal Javert is standing in the doorway, grinning cruelly.

***

"Mr. Javert, with all due respect, I was just trying to help Grantaire out. Look at his face! He's completely covered in blood." Enjolras is flushed and awkward in the office. Grantaire realizes with a start that he's afraid of Javert. Enjolras is afraid. 

"I didn't see Grantaire getting into any fist fights until he started... _spending time_ with you."

"Right," he replies, cackling in a way that makes him flinch, "that's cause I was too busy getting high in the parking lot every day."

Enjolras shoots him a look. 

"It doesn't matter what kind of a student I am," Grantaire presses on, frustrated. "I didn't 'get into a fist fight.' I got beat up cause I have a boyfriend."

"Look," Javert says, "I'll let you off with a warning for now. Enjolras, take Grantaire to his father. You can get him medical attention and explain how you've been provoking fights. I don't want to see either of you back here for the rest of the day. Joe, go to the nurse. We need you okay for tonight's big game."

"Are you serious?" Enjolras bursts out. "Six different kids caught this guy beating up my  _boyfriend_ today and he doesn't even get a telling off? Come on Grantaire, we're leaving."

He storms out, knocking a chair over on his way out the door.

***

Grantaire's dad isn't on duty at the hospital when they get there. A nurse patches him up, refusing to give him any painkillers. She hands him a brochure on the dangers of HIV instead, frowning at the both of them like she thinks they're dirty. 

Enjolras drives them home, which is horrifying. Grantaire collapses on his bed, moaning every few seconds for emphasis. Enjolras sits down tentatively, laying a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire takes his hand, pulling him closer. Somehow, they end up curled up together. It's weird and awkward and wonderful. Grantaire doesn't know how to say thank you for today. 

He rolls a joint instead, insisting that it's for the pain, and breathes in deeply. 

"Can...can I have some?" Enjolras asks, looking extraordinarily nervous about it. 

"Shit, seriously?"

"Seriously. This has quite possibly been the worst day of my life." He's shaking a little bit and his curls are disheveled. 

"Sure," Grantaire replies, holding it out. "I guess I'm a bad influence, huh?"

"Please," Enjolras snorts, "weed is only still illegal because it's associated with people of color."

Shit. This kid is really something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic slurs.

It's moments like this when it hits Grantaire that he doesn't really have any friends. There are the other stoners, who he sits with in the cafeteria out of a weird mutual understanding and equal social status. There's Eponine, who used to be his neighbor and best friend. But she moved and the age gap got weird they drifted apart over time. 

And then there's Enjolras. 

They've spent a lot of time together lately, Grantaire figures because he feels bad about the pulp-like state of his face. He always makes sure to bring Grantaire ice packs and aspirin. He's nothing like Grantaire thought he was. He's smart and passionate and beautiful, sure, but silly as well. He calls Taco Bell "Taco Hell," he knows how to knit but is really really bad at it, insisting on making hats for the American Cancer Society anyway. He's funny in this weird, unexpected, biting way that Grantaire loves. There's a lot that he loves about Enjolras, he's finding. 

Enjolras has become a semi-permanent fixture in Grantaire's bedroom and he can't say he minds. He's gotten used to seeing that golden head resting on his pillows, scrawny limbs sprawled across his floor. They spend most of their time arguing, getting into full-fledged yelling matches on more than one occasion. When they're not fighting, Grantaire tries to teach Enjolras about art, flipping through textbooks and scrolling through blogs. Enjolras can't seem to tell the difference between Impressionism and Cubism, but smiles through the lessons anyways, pointing out the paintings he likes.

Enjolras tells him about his numerous passions - about rallies he's planning and petitions he's going to get signed. He shows Grantaire all of the ways he pisses his parents off, from growing his hair out extra-long to wearing pink mesh tank tops, to giving his dad a copy of Xanadu for Christmas.

They're lying on the floor together on one such afternoon, debating the morality of abortion, when Grantaire's mom walks through the door. 

"Oh, hi honey," she mutters, taking in the scene in front of her: her son's still-fucked-up face, the joint in his hand, and the golden haired boy scowling at him, their knees pressed against each other. Enjolras is wearing a sweatshirt that Grantaire threw at him after he complained about being cold, one that his dad bought him to apologize for a three month trip to Paris for "work." 

"Who's your friend?" she finally asks. 

"Mom, this is Enjolras," Grantaire answers, watching her eyebrows slowly knit together. "He's not my friend, he's my boyfriend. You know, the one school keeps calling you about."

"Nice to meet you. Grantaire, I thought we discussed your smoking." She's trying not to stare at Enjolras. It isn't working. 

"Actually," he reminds her, "I think dad's words were 'be a fag or smoke them, but pick one.'"

Enjolras cringes and moves away so they're no longer touching. Grantaire instantly regrets my words. 

"Leave before your father sees you together," his mom sighs. "Go for a drive or something, I don't care. Just be home for dinner. And I don't want him hearing anything from school."

"Thanks mom." He means to sound spitting and cruel, but it just comes out pathetic and sad, almost tearful. "Nice to see you too."

He grabs Enjolras's hand before she can respond. They sprint out of the house, Grantaire tugging Enjolras along behind him. He climbs into the car and peels away, not sure where he's driving just going fast, barely able to see by the light of the street lamps, blurred by the tears he's trying so hard to hold back. He sees a convenience store, pulls off the road into the parking lot. They sit in the car together in silence. Grantaire starts shaking, sobs bursting out of him.

"FUCK!" he yells, banging his hands against the steering wheel over and over again.

When he finally stops, gasping for air, he realizes Enjolras has been staring at him the whole time, not flinching. His eyes are huge, like two moons, directing all of their light onto Grantaire. He's still wearing the damn sweatshirt. 

"Hey," he murmurs, awkwardly leaning closer and putting his hand over Grantaire's, "are you okay?"

His face is so close. He smells like rain even though it's bone dry out. His lips are chapped. Grantaire can feel his heart beating, like any second it's going to burst. 

It would be so easy to press their lips together, gently. More of a question than a kiss. Grantaire can see it all in his, Enjolras not kissing him back, pushing him away, getting out of the car. Even worse, Enjolras kissing him back, letting pity take over. 

Their lips had met a dozen odd times, but never like that. Because Enjolras could never want that. Could never want someone as pathetic as Grantaire. 

He can't sit in this car for another minute, can't have Enjolras looking at him like that. Grantaire flings the door open, gets out of the car. He doesn't know what to do, has no idea. Enjolras is still sitting there, staring. 

Slowly, like he's afraid of startling Grantaire, Enjolras gets out of the car. He walks over to Grantaire, takes his hand. He pulls them both onto the hood of the car, sitting with their foreheads pressed together. He tries to move closer, tries to move his lips closer.

"Don't," snarls Grantaire, forcing them apart. "Don't you dare take pity on me."

"I'm not-" Enjolras tries.

"Right. Okay. You just like me, because that makes so much sense."

Enjolras looks hurt, like he doesn't understand that kissing Grantaire is the worst thing he could do.

"Let me drive you home," Grantaire sighs. "I won't make you babysit me any longer."

Neither of them says a word the entire drive back.


	6. Chapter 6

He's been in Spanish class for three minutes and Grantaire already regrets coming. He hasn't been in months - Señora Baptistine gives him a B no matter what, so it's easier to spend the time with Enjolras on his free period. Grantaire's only here today to avoid him, feeling awkward about his breakdown the other night. And God that was a  _terrible_ decision.

It was only March. He thought he had time. He thought he was safe, at least for a little longer. But no. It was too late. The season of promposals was upon him.

The first thing to meet his eyes when he entered class was a full-out mariachi band. Lulled into a false sense of security, he assumed it was simply a part of the class for that day. How wrong he was.

The second Cosette entered the room, Marius jumped out of his seat and ran to the front. He gestured to the band and they started playing an unfortunate rendition of "En Tu Pelo." Grantaire is okay with this - he figures it's nice as promposals go, if a little elaborate. And then Marius starts singing.

 _"En tu pelo tengo yo_  
_El cielo en tus brazos en calor_  
_Del sol en tus ojos tengo luz_  
_De luna y en tus lagrimas sabor_  
_De mar en tu boca hay un panal_  
_De mieles, en el viento escucho ya_  
_Tu voz por tu pelo, por tus brazos, por tus ojos y tu boca por tus lagrimas y vos... me muero"_

He manages to garble out a few lines in broken Spanish before Cosette walks over to him and places her finger over his lips. He smiles at her and pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

"Cosette," he says, grinning like a lovesick puppy, "will you go to prom with me?"

"Yes," she giggles, "as long as you stop singing."

Señora Baptistine gestures them back to their seats. She starts a dry lecture on conjugating irregular verbs which exactly zero people attention to.

Cosette and her friends sit in the back of the classroom, inches from Grantaire. He listens to their bubbly chatter, discussing dresses and limos and dates. He hunches over onto his desk and closes his eyes feeling completely and utterly alone.

He finds himself wishing he was with Enjolras, despite the awkwardness between them now. They had seen each other that morning, but hadn't spoken much. Enjolras had brought Grantaire coffee, something of a tradition between the two of them now. They sat in silence, letting the radio do the talking. It was weird to listen to Top 40 instead of Enjolras's iPod. Grantaire had gotten used to his constant singing in the car.

A knock sounds on the door, jerking Grantaire out of his stupor. Javert is standing in the door, smiling awkwardly.

"Señora, would you mind if I borrow Grantaire for a moment?" he asks kindly. The syrupy sweet tones in his voice only make Grantaire more afraid.

"Of course," the teacher replies, seeming to notice Grantaire's presence for the first time.

As Javert walks him through the school's maze-like halls, Grantaire feels his stomach twisting into knots. He doesn't know why he's being summoned, but he's fairly certain it can't be good.

Grantaire practically walks into the wall when he sees who's already in the office. Enjolras is seated across from Javert's desk, head bowed as if in prayer. Sun is streaming through the window, making him look almost angelic.

Of course that's why Javert called him into the office. Because of their fucking fake relationship.

"Sit down," he orders Grantaire, all show of sweetness abandoned. "Boys, prom is coming up. Now, of course I can't control what you do in your spare time, outside of the school grounds.While it doesn't please me, your relationship is not something I can control. But prom is a school sanctioned event. I don't want any behavior that doesn't reflect this school's values."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Enjolras demands.

"You know what it means," Javert replies coldly.

"I want you to say it explicitly," Enjolras says. He matches Javert's coldness perfectly. "So there's not any...confusion."

"You cannot go together," Javert says, resigned. "All couples must be one male student and one female student."

"Is that all?" Grantaire asks, standing to leave. He doesn't wait for an answer, just walks out of the office, keeps walking until he's out of the school completely.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras gasps, running to catch up with him.

"What?" Grantaire replies, turning to face him. "What do you want me to do?"

"Look, you don't  _have_ to do anything, okay?" Enjolras stares Grantaire down, angry in a different way than he usually is. "But I do have a plan. If you're...willing."

"What is it?" sighs Grantaire, resigning himself to following Enjolras in whatever idiotic endeavor he's cooked up.

"It's simple," Enjolras replies, grinning evilly, "we're going to have a promposal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song marius sings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuQku2CuIhA


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god what a bunch of nerds

"I'm sorry, you want me to do WHAT?" Grantaire yells, car screeching to a stop. _  
_

"I want you to prompose to me," Enjolras says, unfazed. "I had thought that was fairly evident when I mentioned it before. Keep driving, we're going to be late."

"No," Grantaire argues, reluctantly turning back onto the road, "no that wasn't 'fairly evident.' I thought  _you_ were going to prompose to  _me._ "

"Why would I do that?" Enjolras seems genuinely surprised.

"Uh, because it was your idea?" Grantaire replies, frowning at the road.

"But I would never something so elaborate. It will obviously be staged."

"Enjolras," Grantaire says, trying not to get angrier, "it will be staged!! This is a  _fake_ relationship!!! No matter who does it, Javert is going to know that it's a direct response to what he said."

"The student body needs to buy it," Enjolras explains, like this should be obvious. "We need to gain their support. Otherwise there's no pressure on the administration to change anything."

Grantaire sighs, sick of having the same argument over and over again. "Even if the student body  _does_ buy it," he points out, "they still aren't going to support us. And I don't get why you think I have to do it to convince them."

"You don't have as much of a reputation as I do," Enjolras says, not sounding very happy about that. "People know me and they know that I'm not...romantic."

"Oh great," Grantaire groans, "I get the short end of the stick because I'm a nobody. Do you know how much of an asshole I'll seem?"

"Why would you look like an asshole?" Enjolras asks.

 _Jesus_ , Grantaire thinks,  _he really doesn't get it._

"Because," Grantaire murmurs, pointedly not looking at Enjolras as he speaks, "you're... _you._ And I'm just me."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Enjolras demands.

Grantaire realizes that they've gotten to Combeferre's house already. He pulls into the driveway and parks, burying his head in his hands.

"Do you really not get this?" he asks, frustrated that Enjolras can't see his own perfection. "You're like this...stupid Greek god or whatever. You're smart and passionate and annoying and..." He trails off into silence.

"And?" Enjolras prompts.

"And I'm..." Grantaire gestures to himself sadly, with a self-deprecating smile, trying to tell Enjolras that this okay. That he knows how much of a fucking loser he is.

"You're what?"

"Really Enjolras?" Grantaire gasps, actually throwing his hands up in frustration. "I'm a stoner and a loser. I don't care about anything. My own parents don't even like me."

"If you don't believe in anything, why did you agree to do this?" Enjolras asks, seeming genuinely confused. He's asked Grantaire this question over and over, seemingly never satisfied with Grantaire's answers.

They sit in a moment of silence, seeming to stretch on forever.

"Maybe," Grantaire finally replies "I do believe in something. Maybe I believe in you."

He stares at Combeferre's sidewalk, refusing to look Enjolras in the face. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, barely more than a whisper. "Grantaire look at me."

He reaches out his hand, gently guiding Grantaire's face back towards him. His fingers are soft and a little shaky, feeling like kisses against Grantaire's skin.

"You're not a loser. You obviously care about lots of things, even if you aren't quite as optimistic as I am. Your parents are assholes." Enjolras pauses, looking right into Grantaire's eyes. "The stoner thing is kind of true though."

Grantaire laughs, letting his anger and frustration and sadness slip away. He takes a deep breath and leans over to take both of Enjolras's hands in his.

"I'll do it," he sighs. "I will prompose to you. BUT, I have a few conditions."

"Fine," Enjolras laughs, "what are they?"

"I get to plan it, and it gets to be a total surprise. You won't know when or where or how I'm going to do it. And I get to recruit as many of your friends as I want to help me."

"Oh dear God," Enjolras says. "Fine, I don't care. Let's go inside, we're late."

Combeferre's house is probably more accurately described as a cottage. It's small and beautiful and Grantaire loves it instantly. Most of the houses in their town are suburban nightmares, made out of plastic siding and frighteningly-green sod. At Combeferre's, there's not a lawn so much as a garden. Only he and his mom live in the house, and from what Grantaire can see they spend most of their time outside. Paths wind through the garden, studded with benches and tables, most of which are piled with books and protected by small umbrellas.

Enjolras takes a shortcut Grantaire hadn't noticed, walking directly from the driveway to the door by going behind bushes of peonies. From the few times he dropped Enjolras off there, Grantaire could tell he wasn't comfortable at his own house - not at all like he was here. Grantaire stumbles to catch up.

Enjolras swings the door open, not bothering to knock. He's greeted by a wave of enthusiasm. 

Courfeyrac skips over to them. He covers Enjolras in a big hug then wraps his arms around Grantaire as well. Taken aback by the hug, Grantaire doesn't know how to respond, eventually hugging him back, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Great," Courfeyrac squeals, "now that everyone's here, we can decide on the movie. Personally, I'm torn between _Koyaanisqatsi_ and _13 Going on 30_."

Jehan wants to watch _Kill Your Darlings_. Feuilly argues for _My Dinner With Andre_. Bahorel tells anyone who will listen that they should watch _Battleship Potemkin_ , which Grantaire is fairly certain is Communist propaganda from the 20s. He can't tell if Bahorel is joking or not. Bossuet is demanding they watch _High School Musical 2_. Enjolras settles himself on the couch, pulling Grantaire with him, and begins to insist on _Milk_. After a heated 20 minutes, Combeferre "accidentally" turns on _Mamma Mia_.

Joly leans over to Grantaire, grinning broadly. "This always happens," he whispers, "everyone argues over what to watch for at least an hour and then we just watch _Mamma Mia_."

"Aren't you sick of it by now?" Grantaire asks.

"No," Joly replies, "we rarely make it through 10 minutes before a game of beer pong starts."

Grantaire leans back on the couch, wondering how Enjolras managed to find these people and how Grantaire hadn't found them himself.

"So," Bousset sighs, standing to look around the room, "who wants to play beer pong?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some ideas of how i picture ferre's house: http://www.pxleyes.com/images/contests/cottage%20gardens/fullsize/cottage%20gardens_4c69a5ea25c3b_hires.jpg  
> http://preservationgreensboro.typepad.com/weblog/images/2008/03/20/stedman_cottage.jpg
> 
> meanwhile the rest of the town is like this: http://images.sodahead.com/polls/002651005/suburbs-76861046599_xlarge.jpeg
> 
> also, just to give a better sense of the setting to people who haven't seen much of suburban america - when i talk about stores this is what i mean: http://ecosalon.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/strip-mall.jpg  
> http://blog.preservationleadershipforum.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/montereypark_flickrchriscusson.jpg
> 
> i actually live in the city and thus have managed to avoid suburban hell for the most part, but this is what i'm picturing when i'm writing


End file.
